


Pretty Damn Perfect

by arojameswesley



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Lap Frottage, M/M, if that's even a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:51:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arojameswesley/pseuds/arojameswesley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac doesn't have a hand kink. He doesn't. What he does have is a healthy appreciation for talented hands. </p>
<p>Combeferre doesn’t have an obsession with Courfeyrac’s mouth. He’s a man of class - a student doctor, for God’s sake - but he can certainly appreciate a talented mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Damn Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> So none of the characters are mine and I am making no profit here. 
> 
> I also haven't yet read all of the book so this is basically what I've picked up about their characters from the internet. Excuse an OOC-ness - it's pretty much fanonCourfeyrac and fanonCombeferre. I may come back and rewrite when I've finished the book but probably not. I have no excuse for this and I'm a little bit sorry. 
> 
> Finally, I don't have a beta reader so please excuse any mistakes that I've missed.

Courfeyrac doesn’t have a hand kink. He _doesn’t_. What he does have is a healthy appreciation for talented hands.

Combeferre doesn’t have an obsession with Courfeyrac’s mouth. He’s a man of class - a student doctor, for God’s sake - but he can certainly appreciate a talented mouth. And Courfeyrac’s mouth is most definitely talented. Not only is he quick-witted and cheeky but - God, his tongue and his pretty pink lips -

Combeferre has to cut that thought off there. He’s supposed to be working, going over pamphlets for Enjolras, not fantasising about his partner’s magic mouth. His focus isn’t helped any when Courfeyrac saunters into the room, a smirk curving his pretty pink lips. Quite simply, he looks like a cat that got the cream. No, Combeferre corrects, he has the look of a cat _who knows he’s about to get the cream_.

He cannot help the shiver of anticipation that goes down his spine and, judging by the twinkle in Courfeyrac’s eyes, his partner is aware of the effect he has. Pamphlets forgotten, he watches as Courfeyrac approaches and goes to his knees next to Combeferre’s chair.

“Keep working,” he murmurs, voice pitched just slightly lower than usual. He waits until Combeferre complies before plucking his left hand - the one not writing - from the desk and brushing his lips over his fingertips.

Combeferre’s quill pauses and he pulls his hand away only for a moment, resting a paperweight on the corner of the page so that the paper doesn’t shift as he writes. Satisfied, he offers his hand back to Courfeyrac, who wastes no time in leaning back up and pressing a kiss to his palm.

He trails feather-light kisses up to his wrist, shifting his cuff out the way to trace his tongue over the veins there. Courfeyrac chuckles quietly as he hears Combeferre’s breath hitch but he does not relent.

Combeferre’s grip on his quill slips when he felt a warm, wet heat surround his first finger and he gives the pamphlets up as a lost cause. The next meeting was two days away; he’d have plenty of time to finish them. Or he’d make Courfeyrac finish them as pay back for distracting him.

Carefully, he shifts his chair so that he’s facing Courfeyrac, legs splayed either side of him and free hand gently stroking through his curls.

“Continue,” Combeferre murmurs, trailing his first two fingers over Courfeyrac’s bottom lip. Courfeyrac smirks but nods, lifting his hand and reverentially pressing a kiss to the pad of each finger. He turns his hand and then kisses each knuckle, so very gentle and precise that Combeferre swears he can feel his heart swelling in his chest.

Courfeyrac swirls his tongue around Combeferre’s first two fingers, eyes slipping shut as he works. He sucks gently, surprisingly so given how boisterous he can be in everyday life. It strikes Combeferre then that this is a side of Courfeyrac that he’s incredibly privileged to see and he smiles soppily as he removes his fingers and leans down for a slow, burning kiss.

It only occurs to him that he’s hard and aching when Courfeyrac shifts, pressing the heel of his hand to the bulge in his own trousers.

“Up,” Combeferre commands softly, pulling back and guiding Courfeyrac up to straddle his lap. The chair groans under the weight of them both but it holds firm. He returns his first two fingers to Courfeyrac’s mouth and uses his other hand to worm his way into his trousers.

Courfeyrac, ever impatient, stretches up and pulls his trousers down, exposing himself to Combeferre’s hand. He groans around his fingers, sucking in earnest until he feels Combeberre’s other hand closing around his erection. Courfeyrac’s breath catches in his throat and his teeth scraped over Combeferre’s fingers, eliciting a groan from the other man.

“You don’t get to come until I do. Do you understand?” Combeferre murmurs, nipping Courfeyrac’s earlobe to drive his point home. The dark haired man nods, hips snapping forward and drawing twin groans from them both. He sets a steady rhythm, slapping the hand around his erection away so that he can rut directly against the bulge in his trousers. The friction is fantastic and he loses himself, sucking on his fingers and grinding their hips together.

The next couple of minutes pass in a blur of groans and chuckles as the chair threatened to topple under their movements and then Combeferre is tense, holding his orgasm back. Courfeyrac pulls away, lips spit-slick and cock throbbing.

“Come on, ‘Ferre, you’re doing it on purpose,” he whines, pulling at his shirt to suck a possessive mark into the skin of his neck. That was enough to push Combeferre over the edge, hips bucking up as he comes silently, damp patch spreading across the front of his trousers.

A second and one last thrust later, Courfeyrac comes too, burying his face against Combeferre’s neck and moaning his pleasure against his skin.

It’s the quiet after that they both enjoy the most, listening to their heavy breathing and waiting for their racing hearts to calm.

And Courfeyrac reflects, as he presses a kiss to the wooden ring on the fourth finger of Combeferre’s right hand, that while they may not be able to be public about their relationship and this wooden ring will never get swapped for a metal band on the other hand, what they have already is pretty damn perfect.


End file.
